Fast Lane to Long Beach

This is my path, Reseda to Long Beach. This is my time, 5:00am. Five days a week and sometimes six. I hit the on-ramp and blow past the sleepy people who refuse to accelerate and hate their jobs. They don’t even know why they’re up at this hour. I’m here to get to work. I love my job. I love my people. I cut my own path through this darkness.

I start out on the 101 South, and I’m instantly thrown in with the crowd from Calabasas, Agoura Hills, and all the way back to Camarillo. They got out here first. They’ve been at it for a little longer. I’ll blow past every one of them. They can’t drive. They’re already taking their eyes off the road and checking email. They’re calling into voicemail at the office, because they’re scared of what’s ahead. I don’t have emails to distract me. I don’t have an office, and I don’t have a desk. I don’t live in fear. If someone has a message for me, they better track me down — they know where I’m at.

I’m comin’ over to the left. You see me making a move. I see you speeding up. Too late, this lane is mine. Drop dead with your brights, or I’ll hit the breaks. Bam! It’ll be on you, and your insurance can clean up my rear bumper. There you go, back off. Go back to your emails and picking your nose in the dark.

Next lane to conquer. It’s thick to my left. I need a dozer, a sleepwalker, someone checking their texts or playlist. Here it comes. I see the opening in my side mirror. Maybe they spilled their morning coffee and they’re looking for a rag in their glove compartment. Maybe they dropped their phone between the seats. Ducking and weaving to reach down and find it while their foot comes off the accelerator. Whatever’s going on back there, in that indium gray Mercedes E Class, I’m sliding in the gap. I’m in. Honk your horn — too bad, it’s done. One more lane to go and I’ll be riding along the wall. Designated for speed, I better not catch a loafer in lane one.

I arrive unscathed in the fast lane. Eighty miles per hour and passing people on my right with great satisfaction. To my left is the highway barricade. Some worry that the mass of concrete will pull their car in. They envision a frightful collision with the barrier. They see their car bouncing off the wall, out of control, and launching a fifty car pile-up. National news coverage descends on the mangled mess and points to the fearful fool who started it all. Better to avoid the wall and stay away from the force that tempts the fate of a Nervous-Nellie or Trembling-Tom. That’s not me. The concrete barrier is my guide. I’m steady at the wheel. I get closer and draw comfort from the rhythm of the vertical seams flying by in my peripheral vision. Each one is a measure with steady beats guiding my speed and distance.

Time for the 405 South. Even at this hour, it’s slow motion over there on my right. Get in line too early for the interchange ramp, and it’ll be death by a thousand stops and starts. The best move is a last second, multi-lane slide. Someone will crack. They’ll pump their breaks under the pressure. They’ll see me threatening to come in at the last possible moment. The sheep succumb to their slaughter, and I glide into a small opening to a chorus of percussive horn beeps and blasts. The curve of the departing ramp takes me onward to the next leg of my morning path.

It’s a steep climb out of the San Fernando Valley. I find my spot in the fast lane, adjacent to the diamond lane. At this time in the morning, I have no fear of a ticket for being solo in the carpool lane. I’d go there if it was actually faster, but it’s not. Timid drivers live there. Fearful of stressing their vehicle’s transmission by maintaining a top speed up the sharp incline.

This will be my lane for the next thirty-two miles. I’ll keep it tight with the car in front of me. Their front bumper will be a proxy for my front bumper. They’ll need to keep it moving forward at a clip well beyond the posted speed. They’ll need to keep that bumper tight with the car in front of them. If that car in front of me leaves a large enough gap for the world to cut-in and pass, they’ll see my physical wrath in their rearview mirror unfold. They’ll see me pointing at them for their failure to maintain speed. They’ll see my jaw pumping and imagine the screams shooting through my windshield. My screams crashing through their rear window — hitting them in the neck. Pecking them to accelerate or take action. Turn on your signal and move the hell out of my way. They’ll see all of this, as the earliest glow of morning light illuminates the terror that’s riding their tail.

Past the peak of the Sepulveda Pass, it’s all down hill now. The highway weaves a crooked course through Bel Air on the left and below The Getty on the right. Things straighten out after the Sunset exit ramp. The winding road has separated the serious commuters from the amateurs who occasionally hold them back. Santa Monica lies ahead, along with the mass of merging cars coming off the 10. Everyone senses the impending doom of both eastbound and westbound motorists moving from Interstate 10 to the 405. Veteran motorists all know that this will be a test to break through and maintain speed. The pace picks up before we reach the Wilshire exit ramp. The best commuters want to be the first to the bottleneck and sidestep any chance of a slow down.

I break from a pack of cars and head toward the dense vehicle mass at the coming junction. A Dodge Charger Hellcat in Go Mango orange joins me for a death race into a southbound black hole. I cross over to a void I spot in the diamond lane. The Charger jumps in front of me. He’s got the same plan. He’s on the same mission. We’re both single drivers in the high occupancy vehicle lane. We’ll both bend the rules to suite our personal need to reach Point B ahead of anyone in our way. Right now, the orange Dodge Charger is in my way, and he might just reach Point B before me.

Beyond the junction, the 405 opens up again. It’s still early, and the vast majority of West L.A. continues to sleep. I’m up, and my adrenaline is primed as I look to take down the Charger ahead of me. We’re both operating at velocities beyond 90mph, but the quality of the road, and the distraction of weaving in and out of other vehicles holds us back from a full-on drag race. We’re through Culver City and approaching LAX. We’re two lanes apart and all too aware of who’s ahead. I’ll never actually turn my head and look over at the other driver. I know where the nose of his car is at.

I’m ahead. I’ve pulled out in front of the Dodge Charger. He’s moved over another lane to the right, almost assuring my victory and diminishing his chance for recovery. I’m out of the diamond lane to make myself legitimate and legal. The Charger moves further to his right until he’s entangle with his destiny on the eastbound 105. I feel cheated. It’s not exactly the win I was looking for. I had envisioned a cutthroat battle until I would eventually peel off to the I-710 South …in the lead.

Still cruising at the high speed I’d become accustomed to, a vehicle rapidly approaches me in the rearview mirror. It’s the Dodge Charger’s brother in pearl white. Not as lavish as the orange Hellcat, but it was moving right into me looking for revenge. The flashers come on. Red-blue, red-blue, red-blue …hidden in the front grille of the white Charger. Where’d he come from? Where was he hiding? Undercover CHP is on the scoreboard. I’m still ahead by plenty.

It was time to slow things down and get over to the right. I’d be a little late this morning. My job would have to wait. My people would have to wait. I’d remain calm. I’d make my contribution to the county. Then, I’d make plans to head off to traffic school. How many cars had caught up with me now? How many passed me by while I sat in this forced pit-stop. How many recognized me as the car that blew past them twenty minutes back, and everyday of their morning drive before that. I’ll catch all of you. If you work beyond Long Beach, I’ll find you tomorrow morning and I’ll pass you before we reach the I-710. If you start out before Reseda, enjoy your head start. I’ll pass you too. I’m the guy in the blue metallic BMW 7 Series. I drive a European luxury touring machine. I love my job. I love my people. And I drive better than you.